The forest burns and bleeds beneath a storm-choked sky. Broken spears of cedar jut like fangs from the black earth. Rain hisses as it strikes blood-slick leaves, mingling crimson with ash.
Ten thousand ninja had come to erase a single name. Seven thousand already rot among the roots. The rest press in—a tightening circle of steel and fear.
Aru limps forward through the mire, cloak in tatters, hair braided tight like a war-crown. His right eye burns demon-red; the left is a blind, pale moon. Each breath rattles like a death knell, yet his grin is feral—too wide, too hungry.
A captain lunges. Aru catches the man's blade between two fingers, twists, and the katana becomes a spear through its owner's throat. A back-kick snaps another warrior's ribs with a crack like dry wood.
The air shimmers—the Zone ignites. Colors bleach to ghostly hues as time slows. Aru slips through their ranks like a phantom, every step a blur. A sword arcs toward his spine; he vanishes, reappears behind its wielder, and carves a crescent of blood across three throats in one motion.
A spear whistles—he flips backward, plants a heel on its shaft, and rides it down to crush two skulls. His laughter—raw, jagged—rips through the storm.
The ground trembles. Behind him, a spectral serpent uncoils, vast as a mountain, its translucent fangs snapping trees in half. Beside his knee pads through the mud a glowing dark wolf, eyes burning with cold fire. Ghost wolves emerge from every shadow, their howls blending with thunder.
Five captains remain, blades raised but hands trembling. They know now: they are prey.
Aru spits blood.
"Come then, cowards," he snarls, voice like thunder on broken stone. "Let the forest drink deep."
They rush him together—five blades, one heartbeat. Steel meets steel in a storm of sparks. Aru twists beneath a sweeping cut, drives an elbow into one man's jaw, and hurls another into the serpent's coils. The wolf rips a captain's hamstring; the phantom pack tears him apart before his scream ends.
Aru vaults onto a fallen trunk, spins mid-air, and hurls three daggers. They strike eyes and throats with surgical cruelty. The last captain's scream dies as Aru's sword cleaves him from collarbone to hip.
Silence falls—broken only by rain and the whisper of spirits. Aru stands alone, soaked in blood and rain, chest heaving. Victory tastes like iron and ash.
He drives his own blade into his heart. The serpent coils tighter around the battlefield, the wolf fades to shadow, and the trees seem to lean closer, listening.
A whisper rides the storm:
This is not the end. It is the beginning.